Tag Archives: fear

The elephants smell bad. The food makes me sick. The port-o- potties always lean like the tower of Pisa and I fear they are going to tip and fall whilst I am inside them.

I always end up sitting on that unknown “something sticky” on those bench seats.

Isn’t it ironic though, that lately my life feels like it’s become a three-ring circus.

I’ve got this recovery thing going on in the main ring. Which includes my shrink , Lee and my BFF, Tiffany.

In ring number two is the old Gypsy woman Maleva, from 1941 film The Wolf Man , who seems to whisper for me to grab her pentagram necklace for protection because a Narcissist, “the wolf” is always an imminent threat. As she yammers her famous line,

“even a man who is pure at heart and says his prayers at night, can become a wolf when the wolfbane blooms and the Autumn moon is bright.”

Stupid gypsy, I went on a chat forum where garlic and charms can’t be seen and he bit me, and what’s more, part of me is liking his bite.

Then in a third ring there’s me trying to balance it all 10,000 feet up on a high-wire without any safety net below. Half of me teeters left, intoxicated by the wolf’s advances, the other half teeters right, recoiling as if to touching a hot pan on a stove.

BUT EVERYTHING IS WRONG.

Tiffany knows everything about me, we stay on the phone for hours during the week sharing our journey together. Lee knows little. I fear no judgment from Tiff. She’s made the same mistakes I have. Lee, there is a formality. I have never seen her teeter, much less free-fall. How can she help me? How can she teach me?

I think my trust issues with people are deeper than I thought. I can even trust my own damn shrink. Now that’s some kind of special right there.

This is scaring me, what is going on inside me….Lee pokes around too much with asking me what I’m feeling about this, or that, or the other thing. WTF? I feel like I’m being interrogated at times. “How did you feel when you showed me the photo of the gun up your snatch?” I’m like .... “I didn’t feel anything.” Was I supposed to feel something about it? I don’t know what I’m supposed to be feeling, am I supposed to have specific feelings? Oh shit ! Well I’m not. Now I’m getting anxious that I’m not having feelings about something that I’m probably supposed be having feelings about.

When I let people into my real world, if I feel they get too close to me, I tend to run. Run from safety. I tend to sabotage things. Sometimes unconsciously, sometimes knowingly. I believe my shrink may be able to help me. At other more times, I feel she can’t do squat to help me. Right now I just want to be done with therapy. I feel like it’s a dead end. I feel it’s useless. Other than sharing anecdotes and trying to make Lee laugh, I feel like I’m not working towards any thing.

At least with my ex-Narc, each week I was working on lessons. How to give head, how to deep throat, how to rim, how to take the cane, the whip, the paddle et cetera. There was progress but I digress..

I don’t know what’s going on with me right now. So I have returned to what is familiar. Those old circus clowns. They scare me, sure they can hurt me. But they are a swamp I know well. I know every inch of that mother fucking swamp. But it’s a familiar swamp. I know how it reacts, and how to react to it. The type of pain that lays beneath its murky waters.

Like this:

Not long after he shared his fantasy of his torture chamber with me. I was in my home and received a call from him. He told me, “you should really check the unsolved homicides from 1995-1997 in Boston.

So indeed I logged onto the Massachusetts State police website and told him, “I see X amt. of victims here. They are both male and female. They have a wide range in age and ethnicity. The manner of death varies as does both the manner and means in which their bodies were disposed.”

I continued, “I’m not seeing any identifiable pattern of behavior that would tie any of these victims together.”

He replied, ” No, that’s right you don’t.”

So I questioned, “why did you have me go check on these specific unsolved homicides from these 2 years?“

Nothing

“Did you have anything to do with these?”

Silence

Then…..quiet laughter.

Then, “goodnight Lexi.”

Then the phone hung up.

The following day I phoned the Massachusetts State Police and asked to speak to a detective. I ended up talking to one and told my entire story. Highlighting his sexual sadism and impulsive violence, the photographs I saw of the pummeled, black and blue woman, on through to the animal killing story, to the sexual fantasy of wanting to abduct a teen.

Sadly, the detective thought that my claim was outrageous, my credibility nill , and he consequently dismissed me as a crackpot. He told me he would “ keep a report on file.” This I knew to be a lie. I felt like this sexual sadist was above the law. I was pretty sure he believed he was above the law too.

I felt hopeless that day, but things were about to change and a Higher law would set things right.

At some point I thought I would try and get into his mind to see what sort of pathology (or not) may exist. I held a college degree in Psychology and had worked in the field for several years. Beyond the obvious of his sexual sadism, and catching in numerous lies, his words and actions weren’t shoring up. Ever. I felt crazy all the time but my gut told me something deeper was wrong. I needed proof that I wasn’t crazy, that there was something there underneath his mostly charming personality.

I knew I would be unable to be objective. However, I believed I would be able to keep a good “veneer” on not showing my shock if he divulged something that upset me. I also knew that if he got the first hint that I was off put by his disclosures, he would not only shut down but that he would also retaliate against me.

Risky for me indeed, yet things were not adding up and I wanted answers. I felt this sort of going “under cover” with him was the only way I would get my answers. Unless you a person with a burning sense of inquisitiveness, where you are almost “driven” to be analytical? None of the reasons I needed to know, will ever make sense to you. Don’t try to understand. Because by this point dear reader if you can’t understand why I needed answers, you have probably already written me off in the “crazy she should have just left” bin long ago.

I began probing his sexual fantasies fully expecting to hear more tales of sadism. I lied to gain his trust that I too, had a few sadistic fantasies but had repressed mine. Mine however were not sexual. They centered around retaliatory themes about bullying done to me in high school and by the abuse I had endured as a small child.

It worked.

He began trusting me and opening up. I never imagined what he was to say.

He envisioned enticing a young 17-18 year old female student into his van. My first question, “how would you get her in?”

He answered, “well that’s where you would come in. Teen girls are much more likely to come near a van when you are asking for directions if a woman is present and asking.”

I let out a sigh…..

“So, I would need you to help me lure her near the van.” He quipped.

“Okay” I listened.

“Then I would run around and grab her and put the chloroform napkin over her mouth and you would help me shove her into my van, then we drive off.”

I’m quite certain I had to take great effort to mask the absolute horror as it was coursing through me as I was listening to him say the word chloroform. My heart was racing. I felt sweat pooling everywhere. I knew if I bailed now I would never know who was in front of me, nor how much danger I was in. I pressed on.

“Okay, so what would we do with her once we have her in the van?”

“Well the van would be soundproof and she’d be chained to the floor by bolts on her legs and I’d bind her arms making her easier to control later. I wouldn’t take any chances.” he explained

“Right, not after all that trouble.” I said.

“Then we’d take her back to my torture chamber. I haven’t built it yet. But I can tell you it would be awesome, state of the art. All stainless steel. Drainage grate in the floors that bodily fluids could be washed down. . All kinds of hooks overhead to hang implements. Large stainless steel hospital bed. You get the idea. This way you can bleach and clean everything so there’s no trace of anything. Soundproof. “

He was so excited talking about it all. It was chilling.

“So what would you do with her first?” I asked.

“Ha ha ha ha ha!!!!! Other that the obvious of taking her several different ways?”

“Yeah right.”

“I’d pull her nipples off with a pair of needle nose pliers.”

Once again I struggled to maintain composure and made sure not to wait too long without commenting I didn’t want him to think I was faking being into his sick fantasy. The best I could muster was to reality check him.

“If you did that, she would likely go into shock and wouldn’t be alive much longer after that.”

He chuckled, “Smart. I knew there was a reason I keep you around.”

He spoke about various torture methods too gruesome to speak of here. I can say that it involved torturing the girl til she passed out, waking her up with ammonia and other means and then repeating this until she died. Then disposing of her body in plastic bags in a river. This was a turning point for me.

This was far beyond the scope of anything I had ever personally encountered. Only the sort of thing one reads in text books or watches on shows like Forensic Files, where the girlfriend/wife/victim ends up dead.

It smelled of mold and mildew down there. The air always had a cold damp quality to it. Because of my asthma, I had never liked going there. All the walls were entirely lined with neat rows of shelf-stable food. Enough for a small family to survive an Armageddon. I always thought it strange. Then there was the safe. The massive safe hidden behind the stairs. Standing at well over 6 feet high, it was large enough with which to store a body.

All throughout our relationship, I was never permitted there while he opened the safe. It was always one of those unspoken rules. The mystery that shrouded the safe added to my wonderment of its contents. The only light was from the lone 60-watt bulb dangling from the ceiling. There were two dirty tiny windows meant only to allow light and ventilation. They were both sealed tightly shut.

He was cooking spaghetti and meatballs that night and asked me to run down to grab a can of diced tomatoes. I headed downstairs and began searching the shelves for the requested item.

Suddenly I heard him shut the basement door and then slide the metal chain latch over. Then I heard his footsteps on the floorboards above me trail away.

I bolted up the stairs heart racing and called out his name all the while feverishly trying the door handle in hopes it would open. It did not.

He did not answer.

It hit me then. The sheer and absolute terror. The blood in my veins ran cold as I realized I have become entombed in this cellar.

I yelled at the top of my lungs and began pounding my fists on the door, “PLEASE!!! PLEASE!!! I’m begging you!!Let me out!!!”

Still no answer.

More screaming, more begging, more pounding on the door,” I’m BEGGING you to please come back, I don’t have my inhaler, please let me out!!”

Silence.

My tears turned to full on sobs realizing I would might never get out of this basement. My mind began to race: Would I die from an asthma attack and suffocate or would I die from thirst/dehydration since there was only food down here but no water. That I would never get to say goodbye to my family….

Seemed like seconds turned to minutes and each minute felt like an eternity.

When suddenly I heard his footsteps again and then the metal chain sliding to unlock the door.

“Why are you crying?” he laughed, “You didn’t think I was going to leave you down there forever did you?” He chuckled,” I was just fooling around with you.” He pulled me in close and hugged me. I felt relief, repulsion, anger…. The Stockholm Syndrome with which I was quite familiar, was unfolding right in front of me. I simply couldn’t see it.

I don’t know how long I was actually locked down there. It was long enough to know that I was not dealing with a garden variety “Daddy-Dom” into some weekend kink.

In retrospect, I think that’s why I stayed. He intrigued me. I thought with all my psychological acumen, I’d find out what made him tick. But by then it was nearly too late for that. For what I’ve failed to mention….was that by then I was in love with the monster.